


Infidelity

by PoetHrotsvitha



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Although who am I kidding things will escalate pretty immediately, Budding Romance, Cheating, Doggy Style, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Intercrural Sex, Oral Sex, Reader-Insert, Remarriage, Victorian, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:43:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8874421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoetHrotsvitha/pseuds/PoetHrotsvitha
Summary: If Crawford expected a demure and loyal wife, he probably should've made an effort to be kinder. (In which Mrs. Starrick discovers that even with very little bark, teaming up with a certain intruder gives her a vicious bite.)





	1. A Mouthful of Apple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Axeman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Axeman/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First foray into reader-insert; I had to work this out of my system.
> 
> Many many thanks to Axeman, Th3Morrigan and UngarnMoc for doing beta-work and listening to me ramble about ideas. I've unintentionally built quite the cabal of support here and it is the BOMB.

The scrape of the pins in your hair was starting to make your scalp ache.

Watching your reflection, you sat patiently as Meade placed the last few curls, delicately securing them to the top of your head. “M’lady,” she said quietly, stepping away when she was finished.

“Thank you, Meade,” you murmured, giving your cheeks a few quick pinches. If you could at least fake a happy glow, that had to be worth something.

The sun was streaming brightly through the windows when you reached the dining room, an uncommonly bright and blue day for London. You ate your poached egg and white roll quietly and alone, dwarfed by the long table and portraits of stern looking men on the walls.

Things might have been just as grand at home- if perhaps a touch more rundown- but at least there had been Mama and Papa. Not to mention the gaggle of younger sisters. And usually a few guests who were there to flirt with said sisters.

Wiping your fingers on a napkin, you turned to Wellsby. He looked exactly the same as when you’d first met him two months ago: grim, polished, and slightly bent with age. “Has my husband left already?”

“Yes he has, my lady,” he said instantly.

“Will he be home for lunch?”

“I believe he intends to take lunch at his club, my lady.”

Ah yes, of course. Why come home to your new wife when you could spend your time with other old men?

Repressing a sigh, you nodded and turned your gaze back on your plate. Another day alone, then. You could take the carriage and go calling, but Louisa and Margaret were both still in Paris. Not that your husband appeared to approve of you going calling anyway.

Standing as a footman pulled out your chair, you unconsciously fussed with the hairs beginning to fall loose at the nape of your neck. What was the _point_ in making the effort to be comely when no one was there to admire you?

“I'm going to sew in the garden,” you announced, “and I'll take my lunch there as well. Please have Meade fetch my embroidery things- oh, and a parasol.”

“Very good, my lady,” Wellsby said tonelessly.

\---

No one had warned you that being a wife was so dreadfully _boring_.

Perhaps it wasn't so boring for everyone, you wondered, idly flipping through a new French novel in the library- a trendy mystery, with some delightful twists and turns. Your nightgown pooled around you, allowing you the luxury of curling up in the soft chair in a way that you never could in your corseted gowns.

The lamps were burning low and your husband was nowhere to be seen. It was possible that he wouldn't come home at all; in your short few months of being married, you'd learned that he spent as many nights at his club as he did in his own bed. Not that you particularly longed for his company. His manner verged on rude, and his self-importance grated like nails against chalk.

But even his presence was better than nothing.

Perhaps marrying a Lord or Earl would have made for a more diverting life. But as Mother had explained nothing short of a thousand times, estates didn't have the money to run themselves. Or at least, theirs certainly didn't.

So when _Mister_ Starrick had offered a handsome settlement and waived the need for a dowry, Papa leapt at the opportunity. To him, it was his first daughter taken care of.

Less care was given as to what it meant to you.

Sighing, you flipped another page. You'd so hoped for a husband who would hire you a tutor and let you learn Latin, perhaps permit you do charitable works. But Crawford was a tyrant in his own home as in everywhere else, and that was exactly where he wanted you: home.

You tried to be gracious about it. Mama had made such a _fuss_ about being agreeable. But you were growing more certain by the day that the boredom was going to kill you.

\---

You blinked your eyes open in the dark.

Your neck was sore from lying on the lumps of your braid. As you lifted your head, you realised that you had fallen asleep in the chair, book splayed over your stomach. Why on earth hadn't Meade found and woken you? For that matter-

There was a rustle in the room.

Heart jumping, you sat up slowly. The filtering stream of moonlight through the window made a solid silhouette clear against the glass. Someone- a man- was rifling through your husband’s desk.

Someone who was definitely not your husband.

He was also muttering furiously under his breath. “Stupid stealth missions, why couldn't I just blow the whole sodding place up, Evie should be doing this-”

If you were just quiet, maybe he would go away. Maybe he wouldn’t notice you. Nails digging into your palms, you tried to shrink a little further into the chair-

Unfortunately making the book slide off your lap and onto the thick carpet with a muffled  _thump_.

He immediately froze. “Who’s there,” he said, the threat clear. “Show yourself.”

You stood slowly, hands clutching your nightgown, heart thumping wildly like a hummingbird in your chest.

Lord preserve you, this wasn’t exactly what you'd had in mind when you prayed for more excitement.

As soon as you were in view, he relaxed with a huff. “All right, not what I was expecting. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I-,” you said, not able to make your throat work. “I-”

“Never mind.” You could’ve sworn he rolled his eyes. “Hold still and this won't hurt. I can’t have you screaming bloody murder.” He raised his hand and you could make out the glint of metal in his glove- was that a gun?

A surge of fear helped you find your voice. “Please,” you said, “please don’t kill me, I won’t say anything, I promise.”

He snorted. “Calm down, it’s just a tranq-”

Panicked babbling was perhaps not the best response, but it was what you were doing. “I’ll never speak of this to anyone, I swear, and he doesn’t keep anything here anyway-”

“What?” That got his attention. He lowered his arm slowly. “Do you know where he keeps all his shit?”

“I mean I don’t…” you faltered, voice drying up. Crawford wouldn’t even give you your own chequebook, let alone access to his private documents. “He doesn’t…”

With another irritated huff, the man raised his arm again.

“I’m not sure,” you squeaked, mind racing at a million miles an hour. “But he keeps his business things at his office so I’m guessing you’re not here for that, and if it’s not that, I assume it’s probably about the strange meetings in the cellars that he won’t let me go to.”

There was a silence. Slowly, he came out from behind the desk and walked towards you, boots heavy on the carpet. “You assume right. It’s in the cellars, then?”

You nodded wordlessly. That was the likeliest place, in any case.

“Can you get me into the cellars?”

The keys were in Crawford’s bedroom, which was always locked. But there was one other way to gain access to that space, and that was through the connecting door to your own room.

If you said no, perhaps the intruder would leave you alone. Perhaps he would just go. Perhaps-

It was too late. He had seen your hesitation. “Come on, then,” he said, taking one of your arms and easily twisting it behind your back. Oh Lord, he was strong. “Show me. And I would strongly advise against calling for help.” The low growl of his voice in your ear made the fine hairs stand up along the back of your neck, hot breath ghosting along your skin. 

When you reached the main hallway, he tried to turn you towards the stairs when you made to go left. The twist was firm enough that it made you wince, shoulder beginning to ache.

“Cellars are usually underground, are they not?” he murmured, grip tightening.

“The key is in his room,” you said, gritting your teeth. “Don’t punish me for knowing what to do.”

That earned a surprised noise of agreement. When you got to your bedroom door, you pushed it open, steps a little ungainly because of his hold.

You felt him glance around as you walked through. “This looks like a woman’s bedroom.”

“It is,” you said. “It’s mine, if you must know.”

“Then what-,” he said, hesitating as you reached for the connecting door. “Wait a minute, hang on.”

You were already halfway through pulling out your private key. “Yes?”

“Why do you have the key?”

“Why do I… It’s my room, of course I have the key.”

He sounded genuinely confused. “I thought you were a maid.”

A maid? In what _world_ did maids wear fine silk nightgowns? It was a good thing that he was behind you, or he probably would’ve seen the face you made at his deductive skills. “No, I’m not a maid.”

“Jesus Christ,” he said, with dawning understanding. “You’re the new wife.”

He made it sound like he was describing something that lived in a gutter. It didn’t seem worth dignifying with a reply.

There was a silence while he apparently processed this. “Go on, then,” he finally said, giving you a brisk nudge. You opened the lock a little awkwardly with one hand and pushed the door ajar, revealing a dark and richly furnished room. The enormous canopied bed had a low bedside table tucked beside it, and you retrieved Crawford’s ring of keys from underneath a Bible in the third drawer.

The man nimbly reached over your shoulder and snatched the keys from your fingers with a satisfied sound. “All right then, _Mrs_. Starrick. Cellars next.”

The main staircase was deserted, and no one bothered you all the way to the stone steps that led underground. At the door, he released you to work the key into the lock, twisting it with a heavy thunk.

Once inside, he lifted a torch from a metal grate, turning to give you the first proper look at his face.

And oh, that was a surprise. He was handsome- much more handsome than you expected, and probably somewhere around your own age. When he glanced at back at you, he stopped short and stared back, eyebrows rising.

“Yes?” you said, twisting your hands together. Your shoulder was already starting to feel normal again.

“You’re, uh… Younger than I expected.” He shook his head a little and turned. “Never mind. Show me where he keeps his documents.”

That would be difficult. “I don’t know,” you said, a little helplessly.

“You don’t know? What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“He’s never let me in here.” You spread out your hands and grimaced. “The strange guests arrive and they all come this way looking very self-important, but he won’t tell me what happens here. Or why they come. Or what it’s for. He won’t tell me anything,” you said, hearing the bitterness creep into your voice.

“You’re not one of them, then.”

“I don't understand. One of what?”

In the flickering light, you could have sworn that the look he gave you was almost pitying. “… Right. Well, help me look, then.”

At the end of the hallway, there was an open room with a large table. Low bookshelves lined the walls, with documents and old looking tomes piled up in them. The air was cooler down here, the damp leaving a slight layer of moisture against the stone walls. Only one torch was initially lit, but the man went along the room, gradually brightening the cavernous space. 

“I’m looking for letters,” he clarified. “Recent ones. Don’t do anything sudden,” he added, raising a threatening finger. “Or I won’t hesitate to shoot.”

As he began to methodically look through the shelves, you wandered along the room. The fear of this strange man and his intent was completely wiped away by the discovery of what was under your own drawing room- and furthermore, the intruder seemed to have no intention of hurting you anyway, repeated threats aside.

This was bizarre. Why on earth was this in your home? What was this space for?

“Aha,” the man said triumphantly, carrying a pile of papers and dropping them on the table. “Here we go.”

One had slipped to the floor. Leaning down, you picked it up to find that it was addressed to _P._ _Attaway_ and written in your husband’s own slanting hand, still unsealed.

Curious, you unfolded the crisp paper.

 

_Pearl-_

_I know you are still stunned at my marriage. But it is fortuitous in that I am now heir to the title. A necessity in politics, as you well know._

_The girl is a simple thing. Edging on plain and not very clever. Hardly a good match in the way you would have been, but then, you insisted on denying me._

_No doubt she will bear children well enough, and that is all that matters._

_So do not sulk, dear Pearl. You have been absent from the meetings for too long._

\- _C_

 

Oh. 

Oh. _Well_. 

Swallowing, you tried to tamp down the sudden swell of rage in your stomach. 

You had been trying, all these weeks, doing your best to be accommodating and pleasing. You had endured ages of fittings and hours of hair styling and your corset being tightened another inch. Not to mention the nights of learning about your _‘marital_ _duties_ ’, lying underneath him in varying degrees of pain as he laboured on with what looked like a fair amount of enjoyment. 

And this was what he thought of you for it.

There was a hiss of air from behind you. When you hadn’t been looking, the man had moved to read over your shoulder. “Shit,” he said. “That’s harsh.”

You drew in a deep breath and tried to keep your hands from shaking. “Why are you stealing things from my husband?”

“Let's just say..." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "He runs a group that doesn't have the best interests of London at heart.”

“If you take these letters,” you said quietly, “he’ll know you were here.”

“So be it. I'm not worried.”

Slowly, you folded the offending letter to Ms. Attaway. “If you obtained copies, you could gather information on a more long-term basis.”

“Yes but- my God, are you offering?” A grin was spreading across his face, clearly delighted at the idea. “You thought I was going to kill you less than an hour ago!”

You squared your shoulders. “Are you going to cause problems for my husband?”

“I’d love nothing more.”

“Then I'll copy the letters.”

He chuckled. “Strange bedfellows, but Evie will be happy. That's my sister,” he clarified. “I'm Jacob- Jacob Frye, leader of the most fearsome gang in London.” His chest practically puffed as he said it. "It'll be a pleasure working with you, Mrs. Starrick." 

“Charmed,” you muttered, already turning back to the pile of letters.

Plain and simple indeed. You'd show _him_ plain and simple.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smexy interludes are planned for the next chapter, so haaaaaaang tight. ( ✌︎'ω')✌︎ 
> 
> Victorian breakfasts: can't beat good old eggs, bacon and bread for the upper classes. That and the occasional game or fish leftover from last night's supper, but of _course_ a lady must keep an eye on her waistline. 
> 
> _Mister_ Starrick: Starrick may be wealthy, but it all came from trade. Our lovely reader is bound to look down her nose at that, even if her own (titled) family isn't doing so well at this point. And without a brother, it isn't entirely beyond the pale that everything would go to the oldest daughter's husband, especially if things weren't locked up in an entail (I presume some of you have watched Downton Abbey?) 
> 
> French Murder Mystery: murder mysteries were rapidly picking up steam as a genre and becoming incredibly popular across every part of society. Lucy Worsley wrote an excellent book about this and I highly recommend it ("A Very British Murder"). It was also made into a program that you could probably find on YouTube if you're interested. 
> 
> Starrick's club: Obviously I don't mean a dancing and weirdly grabby dudes and overpriced cocktails sort of club. Instead I mean a reading the paper and gambling and hiding from your wife with overpriced liquor sort of gentleman's club. 
> 
> Connecting rooms: upper-middle-class spouses would never sleep in the same room, how gauche! You'd make the trip for, ehem, coital purposes.
> 
> P.S. If you have anything specific you'd like to see for the previously mentioned future amorous activities, now's the time to make your suggestions known. Here or on Tumblr, where I go by the same name.


	2. The Snake in the Garden

As a child, you had a recurring nightmare for a time. You would be walking through the halls of your own home, bare feet slapping against the wood, until you came to the front drawing room. Mama and Papa would be there, sitting in their customary seats, Papa with his book and pipe and Mama with her sewing.

But when they turned, you wouldn't recognise their faces.

And when they rose and reached for you, you knew- somehow you just _knew_ \- that they weren't your Mama and Papa at all. They were strangers instead, figures that you had never seen before in your life, horrendous monsters that had taken the form of those you were closest to.

You would scream and scream and wake up still screaming, until Nurse rushed in and calmed you with hushed murmurs and warm milk.  

But now you were in a house of your own, supposedly a woman in your own right, and Nurse was not here. And when you opened your husband’s letters and began to copy his words, you discovered that the man you thought you had grown to understand over the last two months was someone that you didn't know at all. But it wasn't a dream, something you could banish with warm milk- with each night that your husband stayed away and you descended to the catacombs, you discovered a more and more unrecognisable spectre. 

Oh, there was some good in there, of course. True monsters were never all evil. There was discussion of raising wages, of providing some housing, of philanthropic works. But for every kind deed, three more terrible shadows scuttled in their wake- crushing unions, abducting orphans for free labour, exploiting workhouses and asylums.

Each night, you climbed silently back up to your room and tucked your copies into the bottom of a hatbox with an ugly bonnet from Aunt Beatrice that you'd never liked.

Occasionally, guilt would begin to gnaw at your chest. Perhaps if Crawford would speak to you directly, he could allay your concerns, replace the spectre with a genuine man. Redeem himself, or explain himself somehow. 

“Husband,” you said one breakfast, over your cup of tea. The whole meal had been spent summoning up your courage. “I really _would_ like to know what it is that happens in those meetings that you seem to prize so highly.”

“It's not your concern,” he said briskly, shaking out his napkin.

“Yes,” you continued, trying to smile prettily, “as you've said, but I am your wife and your concerns are mine, and I should like to-”

“Your only concern is bearing an heir,” he said, not even looking up from his breakfast. “Something which, I note, you are not experiencing any progress with, despite my efforts.”

“I- that, but- it's early days still-”

“If you can disappoint so fundamentally on such a basic matter, I don't imagine that including you in more of my life would help.”

You had never felt such a blind urge to stab someone through the hand with a dinner fork.

The rest of the meal was finished in silence. As was the next, and the next, and the next, as you slowly gathered more information about the web of an empire that he was running under your nose. You learned to face your husband across the breakfast table with a placid smile, vague and ignorant.

All the while, a growing tumour of disgusted contempt clotted your lungs.

Your life, you knew, had been a golden one until this point. You had been spoiled and cosseted since the day you were born. No doubt if you wanted, you could be _plain and simple_ with some degree of relief. It would be easy to turn a blind eye, eat more Turkish Delight, and spend another morning in the garden. Again and again and again, until you bore children and faded into the wallpaper like the painted roses lining the walls.

Instead, you burned. It started like flickering coals but built into a dizzying roar, one that was remarkably easy to contain within a calm and pleasant outward air. 

If only your growing determination and hatred were driven by something more noble. Helping the disenfranchised, maybe, or meting out justice like a heroine from one of your books. That might've made it easier to face, to accept, than this vengeful ache born of being overlooked and held in contempt.

Because as you continued to silently endure his nighttime visits and copy his precise writing onto new sheets of paper, you found yourself dreaming of humiliating him until he wept bitter tears of salt and blood.

\---

“This is excellent.” Jacob was flipping through the papers you had gathered, nodding slowly. “There's a lot more than I expected here- Evie will be pleased.”

You were in your nightdress, perched on the side of your bed. He'd never actually specified how he planned to get in touch, so you'd nearly jumped out of your skin the first time that he knocked on the window of your room as you were reading alone. Since then, you'd grown accustomed to it, immediately hopping up to drag the windowpane open every time you heard the _tap tap tap_.  

“They seem to be increasing in volume,” you agreed, stretching your palms in the memory of a few cramps caused by hours of writing into the night. Your husband had only commented to ask if your tiredness could be a sign of expecting. Standing, you walked to Jacob’s side and held your candle over his shoulder so he could see the way that there was more writing on each page, the hand more panicked and hurried.

“It's because we've got them panicking.” Jacob looked even more satisfied than usual. “His tidy little empire is starting to crumble at the seams.”

It was easily the best news you'd heard all week.

“Thank you, _Mrs._ Starrick,” he continued, giving you a lazy grin. Where the words had originally been said with sneering contempt, they were now said almost as if it was an inside joke. Something that only you two were in on.

As he turned, you suddenly realized that with holding the candle over his shoulder, you were standing _really_ rather close. You could see the crook in his nose where it almost looked like it had been broken, the warm brown of his irises, the slice of a white scar through the stubble that you’d never noticed before.

“Right,” he said, tucking the folder into his coat. “I’ll be off, then, but I’ll be back soon. Ta again.”

Quick as a flash, he was out the window, into the inky black night.

As you crawled back under your now-cool covers, you found yourself thinking of that closeness. But you weren't thinking of the crooked nose, or the brown eyes or the scar. Instead you were remembering that where everything else about him was hard angles and straight lines, his lips were curved and looked rather soft.

It was the wrong thing to notice about a gangster, really. Your husband’s letters had made it clear that Jacob was running an underworld syndicate, a group of ne’er-do-wells that were causing havoc all over London. Criminals. Beggars. Crooks.

But the thought of those lips followed you around anyway as the weeks went by, in quiet moments around slivers of sunlight in the morning, in the space between your breaths at night, in the glancing touch of your husband that could have been someone else.

Oh, if it only it was someone else.

\---

Jacob’s visits fell into a predictable pattern, a weekly tap at the window that arrived regardless of the weather. It meant that you could prepare, if you wished.

One night, you asked Meade to organise a tray of little snacks and a tumbler of sherry to be left in your room. For your husband, of course, you explained. In case he decided to come home tonight.

She looked rather pitying for the briefest of moments, and you soothed down the familiar rage with the reminder that you were actually hurting Crawford in the most intimate way that you knew.

After night fell, you paced back and forth in your nightgown and robe, waiting restlessly. You practically flew to the window when the tap came, beaming as he tumbled into the room.

“Hello,” he said, slowly returning your smile as he took in your hair, still done up nicely, and the crackling fire.

“Your letters,” you replied, quickly pulling the hatbox from under your bed and digging them out. “I have quite a few again, this time. I've put them in a file and labelled them with an appendix so they're easier to browse.”

He looked impressed at that. “Cheers, Evie will be pleased.”

You smile widened under his approval and a silence settled over the room.

“Well, uh…” he said, shifting a little. “I guess if I have these,” he waved he file a little listlessly, “I should be going…”

"Actually,” you started, praying that your nerves weren't showing. “I thought you might want to stay for a drink.” You gestured to the tray laid out in front of the couch.

There was the barest blink of surprise before he nodded, ambling over and flopping down in an ungainly sprawl. “This is fancy, do you make such a nice spread for everyone who crawls in through your window?”

“When the occasion calls for it.” You settled next to him and poured a bit of the sherry from the decanter, playing hostess. He accepted the drink and swung his legs up to prop them on the low table, probably scuffing a priceless heirloom in the process. Crawford seemed intent on everything being of the finest quality, even when it made no sense.

“So, I've been wondering,” he said, after a pause, giving his drink a swirl. “What is it that you… _Do_ , all day?”

You looked down at your hands. “Embroidery. I read, some. Plan menus with Cook. Change for dinner.”

“That sounds like watching paint dry.”

Mama’s voice echoed lightly in your head- _be gracious, now_. But what was the point? It _was_ like watching paint dry. At least at home the sewing had usually had a real purpose, with socks to be darned and dresses to be altered. You'd been able to read aloud to Papa as his eyesight failed. Your sisters had always needed some minding, because Nurse could hardly keep track of all of you on her own. Those things had felt worthwhile.  

Here, it was all decorative. Roses upon roses on kerchiefs that wouldn't be used. Delicate needlepoint on shirt collars that would be discarded after one wear. Pointless.

Your hands were clenched tightly in your robe, you realised, and you eased your grip with an inaudible sigh. “Some days I think I might scream from the boredom,” you admitted.

“Don't you toffs usually go… I don't know, visiting? The theatre? Something posh?” He sounded genuinely curious, though you couldn't think why he would care.

“My husband,” you said stiffly, “doesn't approve of my going out alone. But he's rarely home himself.”

He let out a low whistle. “Nice man.”

“Rather.”

“Well, tell you what.” He propped himself forward, slapping his hand on his knee. “I'll take you out some night. Can’t do anything too posh but if you're clever enough to do this-” he gestured to the annotated folder “-I'm guessing you're going mad in here with nothing to do.”

For the first time in months, real, genuine excitement bubbled up in your chest. “Really? I mean that- that would be wonderful-”

“Sure,” he said, giving you a remarkably sincere and uncharacteristically gentle smile. “It sounds strange when you're sitting in the middle of so much fancy shit, but you deserve better than this.”

The excitement had changed to something of a tight squeezing feeling that was migrating to your throat.

“And hey, if nothing else-”

Before he could say anything more, you leaned up and threw your arms around his neck in a tight hug. After months of being treated as either an ornament or a chore, it felt like such a blessing to have someone act like they simply might enjoy your _company_.

He froze for a moment before he chuckled and reached around to awkwardly pat you on the back. “Well hello,” he said, “it’s just a trip outside, not an invitation to tea with the Queen.”

Collecting yourself, you snapped your hands back to your sides as a you felt a furious blush crawl up your cheeks. “It’s kind, that’s all.”

“All right, then,” he said, setting his glass down. “If the idea is so exciting, let's go.”

“What- wait, now?”

“No time like the present.” He stood and reached for your hand, tugging you up from the couch.

“But I'm not even dressed!”

“Get dressed, then, surely a grand lady can manage that much on her own?”

A bit easier said than done. Mind whirling, you found where Meade had put away your riding skirt, which thankfully didn't require a full bustle or cage crinoline. Ducking behind your screen, you wriggled into it, deciding that you could forgo the stockings just this once.

But that still left the corset. Even if you could leave the laces threaded and wriggle into it, you couldn't reach to tighten it properly.

You hesitated for a moment before you felt a surge of recklessness. You were already breaking _so_ many rules, what was one more? “Jacob,” you called out, “will you help me lace up my corset?”

The silence was so long that you were about to call out again when he answered. “Uh… I can't guarantee that I'll know what to do.”

It was somehow reassuring that he didn't expertly know his way around women’s underwear. “I just need you to tighten the strings,” you said, poking your head around the screen.

“Right. Uh… Right.” Even in the dim light, you could swear that he was blushing, ears turning pink under his hat. He stepped up to the side of the screen and took the laces in hand as you turned to face away from him. “I just tie these?”

“Yes, please.”

Your skin felt hotter under his gaze. Every inch of your shoulder blades suddenly felt tender, like they could spark with just a touch, like you could practically feel his fingers tracing a pattern along the dips and crests of your skin—

“All done,” he said gruffly, knotting the strings efficiently. It was much looser than you normally wore it, but it would do. “Don’t know why you bother with this.”

“It’s good for the constitution,” you said primly, pulling on a blouse. “How are we leaving?” The reality of a night out was beginning to set in, a jittery excitement like a child discovering Christmas presents rattling through your veins.

“Same way I always do,” he said, gesturing to the window.

You gaped at him. “But… But I can’t…”

He turned around and crouched a little. “Come on, piggy back, up you get.”

You awkwardly clambered up on him, well aware that you hadn’t had a piggy back ride since you were eight. With a brisk shuffle, he propped you into place as you yelped, shocked and delighted all at once to be reminded of how strong he was.

Clinging tightly, you kept your arms wrapped firmly around his neck as he began his descent out of the window.

It was quicker than you thought it would be, given that he simply hooked a rope to the windowsill and rappelled down. Not that you saw any of that. You were too busy shoving your face against his jacket with clamped eyes and trying not to scream or strangle him with the sheer force of your adrenaline-fuelled fear. 

Back on solid ground, he deposited you gently and offered his arm. Heartbeat slowing gradually, you accepted with a smile and you both set out into the night. The fog was thick, rolling over the ground and obscuring everyone else that you came across, turning each figure into a spectre against the dim light of the street lamps.

You spoke of nothing, really, but it was the most fun you'd had in ages. It was thrilling to be out, and he had a way of making you laugh with just a quirk of his head. Sometimes with him, sometimes at him. He didn't seem to mind either one. 

After a brisk turn about the neighbourhood, he was in the middle of regaling you about an adventure involving some sort of serum and exploding gas when you broke away suddenly, sprinting to a shop window to press your hands against it.

Jacob followed, looking indulgently amused. “What’s this, then?”

“The newest ones,” you breathed, breath fogging against the glass. “They've been published.” Two new works by your favourite author were propped up on a cushion to entice passersby, two more fascinating mysteries that just begged to be explored in a comfortable chair by a crackling fire.

“You’ll have to get it,” Jacob said, leaning in next to you to squint at the books. You could see your reflections faintly in the glass, a warped version of the two of you standing shoulder to shoulder.

“I can’t,” you replied, swallowing down your sadness at the thought, at being so close and yet so far. “Crawford doesn’t approve. I have the few that I brought from home, and I hid those away so I could savour them. But I don’t have the money to get new ones, or the means to go out and buy them.”

When you looked over, he was frowning. “Why do you listen to him?”

You frowned back. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever known what it’s like to be the smaller person in a fight, have you?”

“I’ve fought loads of tall—”

“I meant metaphorically.”

“Oh.” He considered it. “I suppose not.”

Regretfully, you drew away from the window. “It changes how you see the world.” Taking his arm again, you gave him a bright smile. “Take me back? I’m rather tired, and the faster you get me up the wall, the sooner I can stop dreading the ascent.”

“It’s really not that bad, you’re quite safe with me.”

“It really is that bad, Jacob. It really is.”

\---

The following night, you were bent over your embroidery near the fire when there was a familiar _tap tap_ at the window.

With a frown, you set the sewing aside and went to yank the window open. It was strange that Jacob would be here so soon after his last visit; a definite deviation from his pattern.

He tumbled into the room and rolled to his feet surprisingly gracefully, patting down the dust on the jacket as he went. “Evening, Mrs. Starrick.”

“I don't… Have any notes,” you started cautiously, still confused.

“Didn't expect you to. I wanted to- where are they- here we go,” he said, digging around in his coat pockets until he pulled out two slim volumes and passed them to you.

Wordlessly, you accepted them and slowly turned them over in your hands. They were bound in cheap fabric that was coarse against your fingers, lettering stark against the page when you flipped to the cover. Your mysteries. The ones you had been excited about last night. “But… why…”

Jacob shrugged. “Have a friend who sells books, thought I could do you the favour.”

In the flickering light of the fireplace and with the slightest trace of a pleased smirk, he looked like the very incarnation of everything that your entire life had warned you against. An unknown man, in your room past nightfall- a dangerous man, one who had originally arrived to break into your home. And yet, you were holding the first gift that meant anything to you since your marriage, from a man who had actually _listened_ , who had the most handsome strong nose and softest looking lips that you had ever seen. Probably the softest to the touch, as well. 

Suddenly, you had to know. 

It took only a step forward to push up onto your toes to kiss him.

He froze like stone for a breath. After a moment, though, he relaxed, leaning down a little to meet you halfway. As you moved against him and let your tongue swipe gently against his mouth, he seemed to find his enthusiasm, his hands reaching out and grabbing at your waist and pulling you so close that it was almost crushing. The firm fabric of his gloves was taut against your skin through the soft nightgown, and even in this dreamlike state, things somehow felt very sharp and clear- it was easy to wrap your arms around his neck and try and tuck even nearer to the warmth of his chest, the brass of his jacket buttons digging against your front. He smelled vaguely of gunpowder and leather, an earthy sort of smell that you immediately decided you liked far better than any powder or cologne.

His lips were as soft as you'd dreamed, warm and pliant against your mouth. As your hands slid up into his hair, his hat toppled off his head and to the floor, landing with a dull _thump_ that you both ignored.

This was much better than any other kiss you’d ever had, so much more eager and exhilarating.

Any lingering doubts or regrets drew away when you felt his teeth close on your lower lip, giving a gentle scrape that made you jump and moan. The moan seemed to only spur him on further, making him lean forward so forcefully that you were suddenly bent backwards, clinging tightly to his shoulders so you wouldn’t fall. But you hadn't fallen last night, so you wouldn't fall now- you were safe with him, just like he said. 

When you finally untangled yourself and pulled your face away, he looked punch drunk. Suddenly feeling a bit shy, you lifted your arms to withdraw, but he kept his grip firm. “No no no,” he hushed, palm open against the small of your back. “That was nice. Very nice. All that for some books?”

“It’s a bit more than that,” you murmured, relenting and settling your nose against the crook of his shoulder. The stubble of his cheek rubbed against your skin, abrasive in an oddly pleasant way.

“Mmm,” he agreed quietly. “Yes. It is.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're getting alooooong 
> 
> Nurse: Any nighttime soothing in a rich family wouldn't have been done by a parent. Parents in upper class/upper middle class families saw their children for a scheduled hour or two a day, and nannies took care of the rest of it. 
> 
> Turkish Delight: A jellied sweet treat being enjoyed in London by the 19th century. 
> 
> Plan menus with Cook: The lady of the house would oversee domestic chores in a very, very supervisory capacity. Deciding what to eat for the week, for example, or planning parties.
> 
> Corset: You wouldn't do a nighttime jaunt without a corset, even if it's inconvenient! The Victorians had very strict views about corsets- one of them being that they were essential for female reproductive and physical health (I know, I know, it's hard to imagine). And truly, people who would know much better than I have assured me that if you wear one all the time, you grow to be rather uncomfortable without it.
> 
> "Likes reading" seemed like an appropriate character trait for a reader insert, don't you think?


	3. A Virtuous Endeavour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So. Before we begin. 
> 
> Part of writing this chapter had me thinking about the dynamics of consent. There is a discussion about how the reader is actively uncomfortable/in pain in most (if not all) of the sexual interactions in her marriage. I thought about sticking a non-con tag in there to be extra careful, but in the end, my personal feeling is that this falls on the "really bad sex" side of the spectrum. The reader is consenting. Her ability to decline is in question, given the social mores of the time, but it's openly willing consent because she doesn't expect anything else. In today's world, I would put this in the "wholly unacceptable" category. But I'm trying to work within contemporary attitudes (to a certain degree. This is a fic about a secret assassin society marauding throughout Victorian London and doing battle with an equally secret evil society, after all). 
> 
> So please consider this your warning if you think that is going to make you uncomfortable. It's not a written scene that we witness, merely something that is brought up in a conversation with Jacob, and it's not graphic in any sense.

At some point, Jacob stopped bothering with knocking.

Instead, he would just raise the windowsill and slip inside, despite your repeated scoldings about the risks of someone else being in the room. “Don’t worry,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “I’d know.”

“How on earth would you if the curtains were closed?”

“I just would,” he insisted, giving you _that_ grin. The one that it either meant an incoming disaster or something that would completely make you weak at the knees. In fact, as time went by, it became clear that most of Jacob was like that.

It was heady, dangerous, and absolutely, completely addictive.

\---

He arrived slightly later than usual one night, when you were already tucked into bed.

“Jacob,” you whispered happily, holding your arms out so he could close the distance between you with a greeting kiss. You had meant for it to be a quick affair, something soft to soothe the pain of several days’ separation, but his hands tangled tightly in your hair and you were soon gasping against him, the press of him demanding, everything about him so very perfectly hot and heavy.

“Evening,” he whispered when he finally drew away, smiling before he tossed off his coat and hat; the boots and vest quickly followed until he was down to his shirtsleeves and trousers. You lifted the covers to invite him into the warmth and he willingly obliged, sliding his cold feet against your skin as you yelped in protest. “It’s nice to see you too.”

With a snort, you relented and snuggled up against him. This had become something of a habit- every good intention of his taking you out for trips on the town had been abandoned when you’d both decided that _much_ more fun could be had in your room. Or, specifically, in your bed, kissing and caressing until you were a panting mess.

Shifting, he leaned over you for another kiss, pressing you into the mattress with the weight of his body. You wrapped your arms around him as the kisses moved down your neck and down again, firm tugs moving the sleeves of your nightgown off your shoulders. You whimpered happily when his lips met the swell of your chest, eventually tightening around the peaks until you were squirming.

This in itself was relatively new. Earlier trepidations about breaking your vows had been worn down with each visit, until it seemed like it would be a sin to _not_ let Jacob whisper against your skin. The feeling of his own bare chest pressed against yours was divine, you had discovered, an incredibly far cry from your usually nightshirt-clad husband.

As Jacob’s kisses grew more fevered, teeth nipping against skin, you distantly felt his fingers begin to inch up the inside your thigh.

Tilting your head back a little, you looked up at the dark canopy of the bed.

You had known this was coming, of course. It was what men wanted, you were worldly enough to know that now. And everything else had been so nice that it seemed worth enduring, especially for him. Jacob seemed to delight in every part of you ever so much more than your husband did, so no doubt this would make him happy as well. And that would make you happy.

All the same, when he finally reached the cleft of your legs and you felt the nudge of his thumb, you couldn’t stop yourself from tensing.

He immediately looked up, and even in the dark, you could see his frown. “Did that hurt?”

“Oh no, no,” you reassured him, stroking his hair. He was about to lean back down when you unthinkingly added, “not yet.”

His head snapped up and the frown was back. “Not yet? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, it…” you blinked down at him, confused. “It’s all right, I don’t mind.”

“You don’t mind?” His hand was drawn away now, and he had moved up a little so he could look you directly in the eye. “What do you mean, you don’t mind?”

“I mean that it’s fine.”

“You don’t mind it hurting?”

“Of course not,” you said, beginning to feel a bit genuinely baffled. “That’s just the way things are.” Perhaps he didn’t know, you suddenly realized, that it was simply a reality of men and women being together. “Truly,” you said, trying to reassure him, “it’s fine, your pleasure would make me very happy.”

“Would make you very…” He repeated slowly, like he was trying to work out some kind of puzzle. “Do you mean,” he said, hands coming to rest on your arms, “that it always hurts?”

“Well… Of course.”

“Of course.” His teeth were gritted tightly now. “Fucking of _course_. And what do you do when it hurts, just lie there underneath him?”

Something was obviously very wrong, but you weren’t sure what it was. You shuffled up a little, pulling your nightgown back up to your shoulders. “Yes? It’s my duty.”

He abruptly let go of you, shifting his weight back and balling his hands into fists. His gaze was now directed far away, and he let out a hissed sound that sounded remarkably like _that sonavubitch_.

“Jacob?” you said tentatively. “Is something wrong? I promise, it’s just the natural way of having children, it’s not-”

“You have to leave him,” he said flatly, finally turning back to look at you. “It’s not supposed to hurt, and the fact that you don’t know that means I’m going to kill him very, very slowly once I get the chance.” You were suddenly reminded of the raw fear when he had first broken into the library and pointed a gun at you, the sheer coldness of it enough to make you want to flinch back.

“But,” you hesitated, “who would collect the notes?” You were still dutifully copying down everything that went through the Templar meeting place in the basement. You knew it was furthering the cause of bringing them down- and more importantly, keeping Jacob safe, warning him of ammunitions shipments to the Blighters and planned ambushes against the Rooks.

“You think I care about that more than you hurting?” His tone was starting to get insistent, and his hands were back on your arms, nearly shaking you. “If I had known, I would’ve- I don’t know, spirited you away, hidden you at Greenie’s, done _something_ -”

“Jacob,” you insisted, now genuinely alarmed. “It’s something that wives endure, I’m willing enough, and it’s always brief-”

“ _Willing_ ,” he repeated, colour draining from his face.

Why wouldn’t he understand? “Of course! He’s my husband, I’ve been told my whole life to expect nothing else, what was I supposed to do?”

“Then you can leave now,” he said, determination coming back. “Come on, pack your things, we’re going. I can send you to Crawley, hide you away somewhere, or- I’ll think of a plan.”

“But- but the notes?”

He shook his head. "They’re not important.”

“Aren’t they helping?”

You saw just the flicker of hesitation, enough to confirm what you already knew to be true. He’d told you enough times over the intervening weeks about what a godsend they’d been, how many lives they have saved, what a contribution it was to his cause. “It doesn’t matter,” he said firmly, like the matter was finished.

But it wasn’t. How could you explain to him, a man of action, how important it was to you that you were helping? That you were needed for something that only you could do, for the first time in your life? And it wasn’t a matter of token importance, but a genuine contribution, and you were _good_ at it. You had itemized things according to their importance. You had learned how to make a good forged copy. You had broken some of the Templar codes without a key. You had a talent for this. “It does matter! I have to stay, it’s important.”

He flinched away like you’d hit him. “I see,” he snapped, yanking the covers off and shoving himself off the bed. “He’s more important.”

“What?” You gaped after him. “That’s not what I meant at all-”

“No, I get it,” he said, pulling on the rest of his clothes with excessive force. “You’ve got this lovely house and people to wait on you hand and foot, why would you want to leave?”

“That’s unfair,” you said, blindly reaching for your robe so you could wrap it around your shoulders, trying to stand and go to him. “That’s not why, I’m trying to help you-”

“I wish everyone would stop deciding to do things _for my own good_ ,” he hissed, and in a blur of movement, he climbed out the window and was gone.

\---

Despite your near-constant prayers, he didn’t return. By the end of a week, you were nearly going out of your mind trying to find a way to reach out to him. You didn’t have an address. How did you write a letter to a train?

It was cruel, really, that he would let you fall so deeply for him and then completely disappear. But you were finished with letting the whims of men dictate your life. You just had to explain, and surely he would understand. He had to.

Some nights, you were angry at him, once even enough to throw a snuff box across the room to little effect. Most nights, though, you just felt helpless and lonely, wishing that you had been able to stop him and explain properly in time.

The answer to your prayers arrived in an extremely unexpected form. Specifically, as a little child who showed up at the kitchen back door to beg for some scraps while you happened to be planning the menu with Cook.

Cook had tried to shoo the boy away, but you dismissed her instead, taking some bread and cheese and bundling it into some cloth for him. “What’s your name?” you asked, crouching down and ignoring the soot collecting against the silk of your dress.

“Danny,” he mumbled, having already ripped open the package to tear off a big hunk of the bread and shove it in his mouth.

“Danny,” you repeated, “do you think you could do something for me?”

When he returned a day later, you insisted on seeing him personally, much to the confusion of the staff. Danny’s day had proved an informative one indeed: although he hadn’t been able to contact Jacob Frye directly, he had it from a reliable source that the man would be fighting at The Corner that very night, a notorious fight club on the Strand.

Now all that was left to do was organize a solo trip to the opera- and slip out of a side entrance shortly into the first act.

It was time to start taking control of your life.

\---

“Place your bets here, ladies and gentlemen! The money’s good on tonight’s fights, I assure you, there’s plenty of coin to be made…”

The room was packed from wall to wall, and you had never felt more out of place in your life. Thankfully, there were a few other well-dressed men and women present- slumming, perhaps- enough that you weren’t attracting _too_ many stares. But a fluffy periwinkle blue opera gown was far enough from the general attire that there was the occasional nudging and pointing, just enough to make you uncomfortable.

You edged your way along the back wall until you finally found a break in the crowd big enough to see what was happening in the ring. Two half-dressed men were grappling, rocking back and forth in a strange sort of dance as each tried to overpower the other.

“Excuse me,” you yelled above the noise to another observer standing next to you, a fairly proper looking gentleman. “When does Jacob Frye fight?”

“He already has,” the man yelled back. “Was a proper knock-out, too.”

Strangely, you felt a surge of disappointment. It would’ve been satisfying to see him do something that he was so obviously good at. The… Half-dressed part wouldn’t have hurt, if you were completely honest with yourself. “Do you know where I might find him?”

The man gave a throaty chuckle, raising an eyebrow. “What, want to convey your appreciation in person?”

You were about to pull out your frostiest retort about how inappropriate his comment was when you realized that he technically wasn’t wrong. The words stuck in your throat and to your horror, you felt a bright blush beginning to creep up your face.

The man just laughed merrily at your embarrassment. “That way, love. See that arch? Go through, and two doors to the left.”

You wiggled your way through the crowd until you ducked past the arch, descending down a few steps to what was clearly some sort of waiting area. At the second door, you bit your lip, held your breath, and gave a few quick knocks.

“Occupied,” Jacob’s voice shouted out.

“I-” you started, suddenly realized that you weren’t exactly sure of what you wanted to say. “I wanted to offer my congratulations.”

There was a pause before the door swung open, revealing Jacob holding a bloody towel to his chin. “That’s very kind, but I- Oh.” He stiffened. “Mrs. Starrick.”

You both stared at each other for a few awkward moments. “May I come in?” You finally managed, folding your hands to stop them from shaking.

“Uh, of course,” he mumbled, moving aside to let you through and closing the door behind you. The room was small, with a table and a basin for washing, along with a basic cot. He stepped around you and sat back down at the stool, resuming cleaning off his face.

The silence swelled. “Does it hurt very much?” you finally offered, looking at the blood on the cloth.

“Most of it isn’t mine,” he said calmly. “Just a split lip. Did you come here all the way just to see me?” he added, tone curiously flat.

You gave a little nervous laugh. “It’s not the sort of establishment that I would seek out otherwise. I missed you,” you blurted out, “and I couldn’t stand the thought of things ending the way they did.”

If the silence had been uncomfortable before, it was excruciating now. “Listen,” he finally started, still facing away, giving a deep sigh.

Worry tightened your throat. You had thought that seeing each other would mean that you could both just laugh off the whole event, that things could go back to normal, but what if he was just going to rebuff you and you would never see him again, the thought was unbearable-

“I owe you an apology,” he said stiffly.

That wasn’t what you were expecting. “What?”

“I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that. You can make any decision you want.” He awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, still unable to face you. You distinctly got the impression that this wasn’t something that he did often. “I’d had a rough week of Evie at my throat, and once all that shit was said, I was having trouble going back. I thought you wouldn’t want to see me. So uh… Thank you. For coming here. People usually treat me like a lost cause when I fuck up.” Apologies apparently exhausted, he went back to cleaning his face, the tense hold of his shoulders betraying his nerves.

The relief was overwhelming. You stepped forward and pressed your hands to his shoulders, leaning down so you could ghost a kiss across the top of his spine. “I understood- you didn’t want me to be hurt, and I appreciate it.” You took a deep breath. “I just wanted to be able to help. I’ve never been able to help before.”

He finally turned slightly, giving you a small smile. “My little spy.” The smile disappeared and he lowered his eyes again. “I still feel sick at the thought of that _fuck_ touching you, but I can’t force you to do anything. It’d make me as bad as him.”

For some reason, that made you immediately want to abandon Crawford more than anything else that Jacob had ever said. You gently took the cloth from his hand, turning him around so you could wipe the rest of the grime away. The split lip didn’t look too bad, and there didn’t even seem to be any bruising. He had to be very good at boxing, then, from the little you’d seen. “I wish I had seen the fight,” you murmured, letting your fingers trail down his front. Each touch was a delirious confirmation that he was real, that you had found him again, and the tightness in your chest at the thought was nearly overwhelming.

“I’ll have to bring you back here sometime.” He grinned, resting forwards a little on his elbows.

After a long moment of tracing his neck with your thumb, you leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, tasting a bit of iron tang of blood.

His hands had come up to cup your face when you pulled away. “I missed you,” he said quietly, resting his forehead against yours. “Felt like such an idiot.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered back, before moving up for another kiss. Oh, you’d missed this in particular, kisses that felt like you were melting into him, that left your blood singing. “I’ve never loved him, you know,” you suddenly confessed. You traced the pads of your fingertips along the scar on Jacob’s cheek. “I’ve never even particularly _liked_ him. Being with you is completely different.”

He let out a long sigh and leaned into your hand, closing his eyes, the puff of air warm against your skin. “I’m not too good at those sorts of words,” he mumbled, “but you’re pretty special. And hey, if I just kill him, I get you all to myself, right?” The words were said with a hint of a smile.

“Absolutely,” you promised, smiling back. “All of me, just for you.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and nodded. He shifted and suddenly your feet were off the ground as he lifted you, setting you down gently to sit on the cot. “Do you trust me?”

“For some strange reason, yes.” There was that grin from him again- the one you’d missed so terribly, the one that either meant something disastrous or divine. The one that set your pulse racing like a horse at a summer derby.

He knelt and lifted the silk and petticoats to push past your knees, the open crinolinette meaning that he could run his hands along the stockings until he reached the hem of your chemise. “Hold this, will you?” he asked, putting the piles of fabric under your hands.

You wrapped your fingers in the silk, trying not to blush too hard as his kisses touched the skin where your stockings met your thighs. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “about what you said, about it hurting.”

The kisses were starting to make you feel a bit dizzy as they inched higher, your view obstructed by all the fabric. Infernal clothing. “Yes?”

His head popped back into sight, grin wide. “I can think of some things that shouldn’t hurt.”

Before you could respond, his head was back down and you felt the nudge of something at the cleft of your legs proper, in the small slit of the fabric of your drawers. You yelped at the contact before a tingly sensation immediately swept through your body, and with a bolt of shock you realized that was his _mouth_. “Hey- no, stop-”

He immediately drew away with a frown. “Does it hurt?”

Goodness, no, the opposite of that. “No, but- but that’s dirty for you-”

“Don’t mind,” he said simply, leaning back in again, this time lifting your hips to hook your drawers down past your knees and off your feet. With that out of the way, his thumbs hooked on skin to draw your legs further apart, and you were transfixed between curiosity and utter mortification.

“Bu-” you managed before the tingling started again, and oh, you didn’t know that anything could feel like that. Your whole legs felt like they were seizing, shivers sliding along your spine, electric and warm. “Wh- how-”

His chuckle was dark and it felt like it practically reverberated through your body. You tried to snap your legs shut instinctively, but he held them open, and the sensation suddenly changed to a tight swirling around the tingling- completely taken by surprise, you threw your head back so suddenly that it knocked against the wall and _keened_.

When he drew away this time, to your shocked fascination, he had something slick across his chin. “C’mere,” he murmured, easing you off the bench to kneel on the floor across his chest, legs splayed, his back flat against the ground. “Come on, move up.”

You were so preoccupied with getting your bustle to fold down properly behind you that it took a few seconds for your brain to catch up to what he was asking. “But that- how will you breathe?”

“I’ll manage,” he said, hands now cupped to the swell of your behind, urging you forward. “Besides, it would be a great way to die.”

You were about to protest when he slid you up anyway, your knees scraping a little along the ground, but your squeak of pain shifted into a long groan when he pulled your sex to his face.

His movements were alternating now as his fingers kneaded your behind, long swipes that ached beautifully and flicks that tingled like sparkling wine and where _had_ he learned to do that?

Something unfamiliar was building, like the sensation of holding your breath. It would’ve been frightening if it wasn’t for Jacob’s reassuring grip and the scrape of his scruff against your thighs, grounding you, the mix of sensations dizzying enough that you almost worried that you would pass out at the end of whatever was coming.

It didn’t help that the sounds were obscene; every time you let out a particularly breathy gasp, he would moan responsively, the sound somehow something that you could feel. This, this was pure sin, and all of the pastors who had preached to you about sin not having any rewards were _fools_.

The feeling grew higher and higher with each swirl, until you were rocking back and forth above him, vaguely shocked at your own wantonness but far too addicted to stop-

It took biting down on your knuckles to stop from fully screaming when that cresting wave finally broke. Your thighs seized in a way that you had never felt before, each swirl of his tongue pushing it along further and further until you thought you would go mad. Perhaps this was a sort of madness, being here, with him. If that was so, you would never willingly be sane again.

A few more seconds and you had to shove away from him, the sensation entirely too much to bear. You crumpled over onto the floor, chest heaving, as he rolled up onto his elbow and gave you what was possibly the smuggest grin you’d ever seen. “Fun?”

“I’ve never had that happen before,” you mumbled, a bit disbelieving.

You were wrong. _That_ was definitely the smuggest grin you’d ever seen. “Yes, well, I’m something of an expert.”

You blinked at him. “I didn’t think you’d been with many women.”

“Now that just hurts my feelings,” he said, still grinning all the while. “Why?”

“You were so shy when I asked you to help with my corset.”

He threw his head back and actually laughed. “Most of the women I’ve known haven’t been quite so… Refined,” he said, sliding closer to you. He started fiddling with the waist ties of the crinolinette, frowning. “Does this come off?”

“Mhm,” you said, still in a haze. “Ties at the side of my waist.”

In a few nimble movements of his fingers, you felt the bustle pull away. Now with just fabric rather than the stiff boning, the skirts pooled around your waist, the lovely silk of your stockings probably ruined. You couldn't care less.

“Here,” he murmured, lifting you by your armpits, shifting you up so that you were on your knees, elbows braced on the bench. Kneeling behind you, he took advantage of the low back of the dress to press some kisses along your skin, each one making you shiver.

Your sleepy contentment suddenly sharpened into panic when you heard the _clink_ of his belt, and the nudge of something hot and hard against the back of your thigh. “Wha-”

“Shh,” he said, stroking a hand along your neck, soothing. “Not that. Don’t worry.”

You were still confused until he pushed your legs together and suddenly there was the slip of something in the space between your thighs, all slick from your arousal. After a few thrusts, the facts clicked together in your foggy brain and you realized it was simulating the feeling of full intercourse without any actual breaching. Following that logic, you clenched your thighs together a little tighter, and he hissed happily behind you; when you arched your back, his movements suddenly brushed against that tingling core of pleasure that was still thrumming between your thighs. You whimpered with every thrust, and that seemed to excite him even further, his movements speeding and his hands tight on your waist.

Each push was doing something strange; some sort of heat was burning, an active desire that made you wish he _would_ do the thing properly. That was new. Why would you want something that would hurt? But a voice at the base of your skull was whispering that it wouldn’t hurt, that it would actually feel divine, that the tingling from before could be amplified and wouldn’t that be lovely, wouldn’t that be everything you ever wanted, wasn’t it the most natural thing in the world and if _only_ he would, it would only take a little shift and he could be inside, and why had you not wanted that, you couldn’t quite remember and you were so, _so_ ready-

His fingers slid up to your shoulders and gripped so tightly that it was almost painful, his figure stilling behind you as he let out a long groan. You felt something warm and wet slip down the inside of your thighs. He slumped down on top of you, boneless, before you squeaked at the weight and you both awkwardly shuffled down until you were on the floor side by side.

“See?” he said, tone contented. “No pain, just fun.”

He wasn’t wrong. It had been lovely. But that low burning in your abdomen was aching, and you were still a bit disoriented by the feeling that things weren’t quite _finished_ yet. To cover your confusion, you hummed in agreement and shuffled your underthings into place, pulling your drawers up past your knees.

By the time you were on your feet and trying to tie yourself back into your crinolinette, he had rearranged his own trousers and was able to help with the straps. Craning over your shoulder, you watched him out of the corner of your eye as he tenderly rearranged your skirts. “I have to go back to the opera,” you said regretfully. “My driver thinks I’m watching _Tristan und Isolde_ , he’ll be terribly panicked if the show finishes and I’m not there.”

His smile slid a little, but he nodded. “Better get going, then.”

You held his face between your hands as you kissed him goodbye. “How long,” you whispered, “until the Templars have fallen?”

“A few months,” he replied. “Faster, if I can manage.”

“A few months,” you repeated quietly, almost more to yourself. “I’ll see you before then?”

He took one of your hands and pressed a hot kiss to your palm. “Of course.”

\---

It was an unremarkable evening, the end of another unremarkable day. Supper resting comfortably in your stomach, you were sitting as Meade untwined your elaborately coiffed hair, twisting it into a plain braid for sleep.

“Miss Meade,” you murmured, looking at her reflection in the mirror. “I can trust you, can I not?”

“M’lady,” she said immediately, straightening to attention. Meade had been your lady’s maid for near four years now; throughout that time, she had been nothing but courteous and discreet. And if this was to be carried off successfully, her cooperation was vital.

“I have…” You swallowed. How to phrase this? “I have been to see a doctor, and discussed my… Cycles with him.”

“I see,” she said instantly, face growing worried. Bless her.

“He is concerned about some things.”

“I'm so sorry, my lady.”

“The important thing is that…” You lowered your eyes. “I do not particularly wish to discuss this with Mr. Starrick, as I don’t want him to feel concern that I might be ill, but I also need to remain… _Untouched_ for a while.”

She nodded anxiously, clearly following your meaning.

“But my husband is quite- well he is quite demanding, as I'm told men often are, and men are most accommodating in this regard when there is a pregnancy, are they not? So if I were to- for the purpose of having a family in the long run, of course, while I see this doctor- tell him that my bleeding was absent… Just for a little while, until there was a, uh, tragic loss…”

Meade’s brow suddenly cleared in understanding. “He certainly wouldn't hear anything otherwise from me, m’lady.”

Your shoulders sagged in relief, and you allowed Meade to do a last few fussing touches to your hair. As you stood and turned, you gently placed a hand on her arm and gave it a squeeze. “I'm so grateful, Meade. This has been such a trying time.”

“Of course, m’lady.” She dipped into a curtesy with a look of such genuine concern that it was enough to make a sliver of guilt curl in your gut. “I'll be the soul of discretion.”

\---

Your husband was gradually becoming more and more absent at breakfast, spending his time heaven-knows-where when he wasn't pursuing his God given duty of siring an heir. After several days of waiting for him to make an appearance, you called for the coach and directed the driver to take you to your husband’s offices, feeling a bit humiliated that you essentially had to ambush him in order to have an audience.

The man at the front door was brusque, obviously taking his crisp black suit and doorman’s duties _very_ seriously. “He's busy, Miss, and he doesn't take visitors that he doesn't know.”

You drew yourself up to your tallest height- admittedly, not that impressive, but it was the point of the thing- and slid your voice into your most aristocratic tone. “I am _Mrs. Starrick_ and I would see my husband _now_ , please.”

The steward’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he swept into a deep bow. “Sincerest apologies, Madam, I wasn't aware. This way.”

He led you along corridors that snaked off into dozens of different directions, a warren of offices bustling with industry. Everything was panelled in wood and looked fine and expensive- if a bit over the top, you reflected, rather like everything else when it came to your husband.

Eventually, the steward came to a solid oak door and rapped three times with his knuckles. “I am escorting Mrs. Starrick, who has requested a meeting with her husband.”

The door was opened by another steward, and you were ushered into a heavily carpeted room where your husband was braced over his desk, clearly rising from his chair to yell at whatever had dared to interrupt his furious writing.

There was a flicker of surprise in his face when he recognised who it was, followed by an immediate scowl. “What the devil? Why are you here?”

“Good afternoon, husband,” you said primly, reminding him that even if _he_ was a tradesman’s son, _you_ were a gentleman’s daughter. “I have some news,” you added, casting a glance over your shoulder at the steward.

Crawford waved the steward away with a flick of his wrist. “And this couldn't wait for my time at my own house?”

You swallowed. “I tried,” you said evenly, “but you haven't been home for three days.”

His eyes narrowed to an even more dangerous point. “Have you come here to chastise me for my domestic habits?”

There was clearly no point in trying to reason with him. “I believe I’m expecting a child,” you said simply, already wanting the conversation to be over.

He blinked for a few solid moments, unexpectedly thrown off from his anger. “That… I see. Well, that…” he awkwardly walked around his desk and put his hand on your shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “That…”

“A wonderful blessing,” you supplied, hoping you sounded sombre rather than bored. “A gift from the Lord.”

“Yes,” he agreed immediately, “wonderful news. Wonderful.”

“I've written to Mother,” you continued, heart beginning to speed up in your chest, “seeking some womanly advice. She says that due to the history of women in my family, I should be particularly careful and gentle these next few months.”

He was looking somewhere over your shoulder, clearly envisioning his son and grand legacy. “Yes of course, anything, my dear.”

“Nothing too… _Vigorous_.” You raised your eyebrows at him as you put emphasis on the word, hoping he would understand the innuendo.

“Oh- oh, I see,” he said, gaze snapping back to yours and a bit of irritation creeping into his tone. “Nothing of my matrimonial rights, then?”

It seemed like a good time to open your eyes particularly wide and give him a few guileless flutters of your eyelashes. “Unless you wish to risk a miscarriage.”

“No,” he immediately said gruffly, “quite right.”

With a nod, you gestured a hand towards his desk. “I'll leave you to your work, as I have no doubt that it's terribly pressing- I just merely wished to share the news.” Turning to go, you walked a few steps until you very casually stopped just before the door. “Oh, and husband, it is best if we don't share this with anyone yet. Until things are quite sure, you know.”

“Mmm,” he murmured in assent, sitting back down and clearly already lost in his work.

Walking back down the hallway behind the dutiful steward as you wound your way back out to the street, it was impossible to hide the slow smile spreading across your face.

You had bought yourself a few months- and if Jacob was right, that was all you would need.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last call for requests if you have specific stuff you want to read in the final smutapalooza! (There is like, no actual plot planned for the next chapter, whee)
> 
> Fight Clubs: Overrepresented in fiction. IDGAF because they're fun. 
> 
> Victorian Underwear: There was _so much of it_. You started with the drawers, which were like shorts that had a little slit at the seam where the legs met (you couldn't take the whole getup off every time you needed to pee!). Then there was a chemise, which is like a sleeveless thing that hits around the knees. Then there were stockings. Then there was the corset. Then there was the crinoline. Then (in the 1860's), there was a series of petticoats or underskirts, with varying volume and length depending on the year. THEN there was the dress. Holy Christ. If you can believe it, this is an oversimplification because I'm actually not that dedicated. 
> 
> Crinolinette: Something specific to the late 1860's, as changing ideal dress shapes meant that more fabric was supposed to be gathered around the back. Rather than a full bustle, women wore this contraption that mostly caged around the back of the body and was open at the front. Imagine wearing a half of a giant birdcage. 
> 
> Tristan Und Isolde: Wagner's seminal opera. It fits nicely because it was first performed in 1865, but I also liked it as a choice because it's about a knight who falls in love with a woman who marries a king.
> 
> I'm [**on Tumblr**](https://poethrotsvitha.tumblr.com/post/156646920285/infidelity-chapter-3), by the by. Come say hi!


	4. The Revenge of Judith

It was several days before you could give him the good news. When a tap finally came at the window, you went to Jacob with a big smile, nightgown loose around your figure.

“Evening,” he said, giving you a quick peck. “You seem happy.”

“I am. I think you’ll find me terribly clever.”

He went through the routine of shedding all the excess layers of clothing, stripping down to his shirtsleeves and trousers. “Clever?”

“I told my husband that I’m expecting a child.”

Jacob froze completely, hands suspended as he worked to remove his gauntlet.

You suddenly realized that you hadn’t been entirely clear. “I’m not,” you hurried to explain, “or- at least, not to my knowledge. But I told him that for the sake of my health, there would be no more visits for some time. At least a few months.”

He still didn’t look entirely reassured. “But what about when your body doesn’t change?”

A flap of your hand was enough to dismiss that thought, as far as you were concerned. “I was nearly a woman grown for my Mother’s last few pregnancies— the stomach takes quite a while to grow, and even when it does, the corset conceals much of it.”

A quirk of a smile was back. “I think I’d better check.”

“Sorry?”

Finally down to the essentials, he leaned in towards you before you both commenced a sort of awkward waltz towards the bed. “I think I’d better check on your waist.”

You were laughing by the time you flopped backwards on the mattress, his kisses nuzzling at your neck. The giggles slipped into something of a sigh as his hands trailed upwards along your legs, pausing at your hips.

When you blinked down at him lazily, his brow was furrowed. “No underthings?”

You felt your face heat up a bit. “Didn’t think I’d need them.”

“A fair assessment,” he agreed, before his clever fingers started moving and everything sensible in your mind dissolved into nothing.

\---

Visit after visit, he was ever so careful and gentle, each movement coaxing and sweet. And every time, the burning in your hips would remain, an ache that would only subside long after he left, just before you fell asleep. But you weren’t sure how to ask for more.

So, you stayed quiet.

It felt like a steady pulse building towards an unknown point, but it happened underneath the portent of gathering storm clouds. Late one night, curled in Jacob’s arms, you propped an elbow up to face him. “I think the Templars are approaching a final big plan. It’s all very cryptic and I don’t know what it is, but the messages are getting more and more urgent.”

He made a sleepy sound, eyes still closed.

“Please, Jacob. I’m worried for you.”

At that, he cracked an eyelid. With a lazy smile, he gave your face an absent pat. “Don’t be. When the time comes, they won’t know what hit them.”

\---

Not many days later, you were sewing in the sitting room when your husband’s figured darkened the doorway.

It was rather strange to see him again. You had gotten rather used to the solitude— once upon a time, you recalled thinking that even his company was better than nothing. You had since reconsidered. It was better to be lonely than be in the strangling grasp of a viper. 

There was no greeting, as was his wont. “I need you to accompany me tomorrow.”

You idly drew another thread through your embroidery. “Whatever for?”

“Her majesty is holding a ball. The proper thing would be for you to be present with me.”

The thought wasn’t unappealing. You hadn’t been to the palace since your presentation, back in your first season. That felt like an age ago now. Perhaps you would even see some of the acquaintances you had made then, and it would be easy enough to avoid Crawford in theory. “I think I have something I can wear. I’ll have Meade lay it out.”

“Do,” he affirmed stiffly. “Be ready at seven.”

And with that, he turned and left.

\---

You were wholly unprepared when the tap on the glass came late in the afternoon, instead of under the usual cover of night.

It was just as well that you had been alone, lounging on the couch and reading idly, keeping up the appearance of being bed-bound and quiet. When you opened the window, things became even stranger; Jacob was dressed in a sharp coat and cravat, the beloved top hat nowhere to be seen.

“What…” You blinked at him as he straightened.

“I had to come and tell you in person,” Jacob whispered, tone urgent. “I couldn’t risk a message being intercepted. You were right- they’re moving ahead. Performing the coup. He’s going to spring everything tonight.”

The audacity of it was astounding. “At the Queen’s ball?”

"You know about it?" 

"He wanted me to be there."

He immediately tensed. “You can’t go. It’s not safe.”

“I’ll fake illness,” you promised, putting your hands in his. In this, at least, you wouldn’t argue. As far as you knew, any help that you might have been able to offer in terms of the Templar communication didn’t extend to the sort of conflict that was likely to happen tonight. “And I’ll pray for you.”

You vaguely got the sense that he was humouring you, but he kissed your forehead all the same. “Thank you.”

Biting your lip, you ran your fingers down the lapels of the coat, feeling the soft fabric. “This is very handsome. A bit different from normal, isn’t it?”

“Needed a change of togs to show up to Buckingham Palace.” He chuckled, but his face turned a bit regretful. Twisting his wrist, he flashed the metal on the heavily altered glove that always sat on his wrist. “Won’t even be able to bring this, but I had to keep it for a bit to get in here.”

You distantly realized that you could even smell a bit of cologne. Stepping closer, you inhaled; it was a nice scent, something sort of musky. When you were this close, you could feel the heat radiating off his body, and your mouth went a little dry. “Er…” you started, a bit awkward. “Do you need to leave straightaway?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners even as he kept his mouth stern. “Why, did you need something?” 

“Not…” You toyed with the folds of the cravat. “A need, exactly, but…”

“Why, Mrs. _Starrick_ ,” he drawled, now definitely having a joke at your expense. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“Of course.” You matched his serious expression. “Tea and crumpets.”

That earned an outright laugh as he held out his hand, now bare. You leaned into his shoulder and hummed happily as his fingers came to tangle with the hair at the nape of your neck, wrapping smoothly in the strands. “I have a few hours,” he murmured. The tone was enough to make heat curl in your hips.

“Then you’d best lock the door,” you whispered back. As he obediently went to turn the key, you got to work on the myriad of lacings and ties that kept your clothing together, accepting his help when he returned. Between the two of you, you eventually worked down to the chemise, removing his coat and vest in turn.

The feeling of his fingers was like the best sort of music, a familiar path that he traced up your thighs, his kisses turning to soft bites on your shoulder as you landed back on the bed. The tune of this symphony was one that you were beginning to know better and better, all of the subtle tones in the background audible to your ear as you unbuttoned his shirt and skimmed your fingers along his front, tracing the lines of his tattoo.

There was kissing and then there was _kissing_ , kissing that was more force than finesse, kissing that made the percussion of your heart hammer so loudly in your chest that you were sure that he could hear it.  

By the time his fingers reached the cleft of your legs, the readiness was almost embarrassing. Surely, a lady ought to need more prompting? But there was nothing ladylike about the way that you were canting your hips, tugging his nice shirt off his shoulders, desperate to wrap your legs around his waist and kiss him senseless.

All you wanted was _more_. It was never enough. It was hard to believe that all of this had once been something for you to grudgingly endure, a Puritan meal offered for the sake of merely sustaining. Now it was a Bacchanalian feast, and moderation seemed like a less and less sensible course.

Pushing on his shoulders, you ignored his surprised noise as you rolled over to straddle him directly. Any concerns about reticence on his part were banished when you glanced up at his face; his expression was a cross between delight and a feral sort of hunger, one that you were sure you were mirroring yourself. 

With a sudden surge of affection, you gently leaned down and brushed your nose against his own. “You will be careful tonight, won’t you?”

“Of course,” he promised, hands settling against your waist.

He was strong, you had seen that. But you didn’t know the full extent of what was meant to be happening and you couldn’t help but worry. “And you’ll come back?”

His hand pressed against the back of your neck then, pulling you down into a long kiss that nearly wiped away all of your concerns. When he finally drew back, you could feel the lump in his trousers between your legs. “As if I could stay away.”

“Even when I don’t have any more information to share?” Another secret fear.

“This hasn’t been about that for a long time— I think you know that. I hope you know that.” His fingers gently tucked a stray hair behind your ear. “Besides.” His gaze darkened somewhat, in a way that made you want to rock your hips. “I’m sure you’ll look delightful in widow’s weeds.”

“I hope so. I’ll be in them for a rather long time.”

He just chuckled at that before pulling you down for another long kiss, tongue swiping along your lower lip. His hands were creeping back upwards along your legs now, your skin becoming hotter until it felt like it would begin to blaze wherever he touched, anticipation building at a steady pace.

All of the sudden, it felt like it was now or never. “Listen,” you whispered, nerves a little present in the pitch of your voice.

He stilled immediately. “Is something wrong?”

“No, it…” Heavens above, why was it so hard to ask this? “You’ve been so kind but I don’t think…” You cleared your throat and averted your gaze. “You said that it wasn’t supposed to hurt, right?”

His brow furrowed at the reminder. “That’s right.”

“Well I would like to see if maybe… It doesn’t hurt… With you.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see his dawning understanding. “Is that so? You _are_ forward today.” You didn’t get a chance to retort before he flipped you both over so that you were on your back, hovering over you on his elbows. Your shift was up around your waist in a moment, his head ducking lower along your stomach. “You’re sure?”

“Very,” you panted out, already dizzily ready to find out.

The swipe of his tongue was a known quantity by now, the shame of it dulled by familiarity. You bit down on your lip to stop from being too loud— servants were still about, after all— as the warmth began to build in your hips with each tight swirl, the scruff of his stubble scraping against your thighs. He lifted his head briefly, voice low and coaxing. “Stay relaxed.”

It was an unnecessary warning. Your arousal was such that you barely felt the blunt intrusion of his finger, not until he began to move it in a steady and rocking rhythm.

When you gasped, he immediately stopped. “No, no,” you whispered, batting your hands against his shoulders. “Don’t stop.”

His warm chuckle nearly vibrated against your skin as he lowered his mouth again, his tongue now swirling in small circles that made the tingling in your hips intensify. Another finger felt just as nice, the movement enough that you were starting to cant your hips, revelling in the new sensation—

The _press_ of something as he curled his fingers was enough to make you nearly jump into the air straight off the bed. When you looked down, eyes wide, you could almost _feel_ the smirk. “Wha- what was—”

He did it again and you melted backwards against the pillows, hands now clapped over your mouth to stop from making too much noise. It was a delicious tingling and the usual ebbing tide of pleasure seemed to rush up much, much faster than usual, racing at the new sensation. It was enough to make you let out a strangled cry against your palms when it finally snapped through your body, rocking outwards from your hips until the tingling reached the tips of your twisting toes, stifling all thought. You should have asked for this so much sooner. You would have, had you known, and even the regret was tamped down by the lingering aftershocks as he continued to move his fingers. 

It took a few moments to realize that his movements had changed, from a steady pumping to something that felt like scissoring. Of course, you thought foggily, the delicious stretching was meant to ensure that there was no pain when there was… _More_ , and the thought was enough to make you dizzy with hunger all over again.

When he crawled up to rest his hips between your legs, you were practically clawing at him, trying to encourage any movement. Anything that would ease this deep ache.

He stripped off the rest of his things and tugged your shift away over your head, nuzzling down to lick at the peak of your breasts. He resolutely kept his hips still no matter how much you tried to buck against him, tortuously focusing on your chest until you thought you would start to go mad. “Please,” you moaned out, “please—”

Finally lifting his head away, he leaned up on his arms and kept a close watch on your face as he positioned himself. In that moment, the focus of his eyes and his kiss-swollen lips looked simply _beautiful_ , enough that it took your breath away. You lifted your hands and cupped his chin, feeling the bristles under your palms, trying to convey your trust in the gentle movement. It was safe. Strangely, in the arms of this clearly dangerous man- to whom you were _not_ married- you felt safe. 

The first nudge of him made your chest constrict for a moment, unbidden panic welling for the briefest of seconds. But he paused long enough for you to relax before he moved again, and then again, and again, and by the time you felt his hips bump against the bottom of your thighs, you were already wriggling to try and encourage more movement.

Because oh, it didn’t hurt. It was the very opposite of hurting, delicious and full, that uncertain ache from before eased in a moment.

When he started to move, you had to pull him down for another kiss to swallow your moans. His own responding groan went straight to your hips. With each stroke, you got bolder, and it got easier to lean up and try and meet him; you’d never been so active a participant in the act before and it was freeing, delicious and addictive. Although— it suddenly occurred to you that this particular position, with him on top of you, surely couldn’t be the only way to enjoy things. It was what your husband had always done, but evidently, his knowledge was worth disregarding. 

“Jacob,” you whispered, holding your hands against his shoulders. “Can we—”

“Hmm?” He looked down, seemingly taking a few seconds to still and focus his mind.

“That time at the fight club, when we— when you were behind, I mean, I’ve always wondered what that would…” You trailed off, hoping he wouldn’t make you say the rest.

He blinked a few times before he let out a huff of laughter, the air warm against your chest. “You know, you still have the ability to surprise me.”

You could feel another blush creeping up your face. “Have I disappointed you?” Was it too unladylike?

“Disap— God, no, are you out of your mind?” He drew away and pressed a kiss to your nose before moving his hands to your waist, helping you roll over underneath him. “Sometimes I can barely get through the day for thinking about you. Thinking about this.”

He hitched your hips a little higher and you gasped as you felt him push inside again, the new angle altogether even more delicious as it rubbed against the tender spot. Yes, this was also lovely, absolutely lovely, even more so than you had hoped. You arched your back to try and encourage him even deeper, but you had to stifle a cry when his hand reached down and wrapped under your abdomen to that little spot that his fingers seemed to know so well. Each nudge was sending shocks through your hips, making your legs shake. “I can’t,” you whispered into the air, “I can’t again, I can’t—”

“You can,” he whispered, breath hot against your shoulder blades. “You absolutely can, and I want to feel it.”

“Jac— bu— dzuh—” you slurred, words failing you as he lifted himself a little higher, flat planes of his hips thudding against your behind, the movement suddenly brushing that lovely tender spot inside that you hadn’t even known existed until today. The combination of that and the stroking of his fingers was making it altogether hard to breathe or think, let alone sit down and reasonably explain why you thought that something so intense should only be enjoyed once each time. It seemed to go on and on, time spiraling out as the release crept closer and closer, nearly sore for everything being so tender.

“Go on,” he groaned out, the hand against your hip tightening until it sat on the edge of painful. His own voice was starting to sound a bit strained. “Let me feel it.” The longing in his voice was addictive, you decided, something that you wanted to hear over and over again. 

You managed to shove your face into the pillow moments before it finally crested. Shuddering through your whole body, your knees shook against the mattress at the punishing intensity of it, your fingers clawing hopelessly into the sheets. This was pleasure in its rawest form and it was perfect in every way, right down to the bruising of his fingers that you were fairly certain would be left against your hip. Had you thought that more than once was a bad idea? Hindsight made it clear that such a thought was sheer foolishness.  

Apparently now satisfied that you were sated, you were snapped out of your languid thoughts as Jacob picked up his pace, evidently now chasing his own pleasure. Not that you minded at all. This was the farthest thing from painful, to the point where you wondered how you had ever thought you could simply accept a lifetime of this act being something to be endured. Each thrust drove the air from your lungs as you moaned, his breathing becoming more and more ragged over you.

“Shit,” he hissed, one palm sliding up your back until he gripped your shoulder, pulling you up to sharply tug you back against him more fully. You truly thought you were going to start wailing- consequences be damned- when he finally shuddered and stilled, letting out a long moan that you immediately tried to trap as a memory in your head forever. It felt wrong to pray that you would be able to hear it again, but you had sent up the thought before you could stop yourself. 

It briefly reminded you that your betrayal was fully complete now. It only sweetened the moment. 

You both collapsed onto the bed, his weight heavy above you, the slick of sweat between your skin from his exertions. It was a bit crushing, but you were surrounded by his smell and almost disappointed when he heaved himself over onto his back next to you. His absence made the dampness between your legs all the more obvious, the thought of his seed there a rather pleasing one.

“So.” He stretched, muscles of his arms flexing in a way that rather hypnotized you before he tucked his hands behind his head. “Not painful?”

The idea seemed laughable now. “No,” you whispered, turning your head so you could smile at him. “Not painful.”

He chuckled before his gaze travelled to the clock on the mantle. “Shit. Is that the time? Evie’s going to kill me if I don’t get moving.” With a self-pitying groan, he pushed himself up and gave himself a brisk shake. Just as he went to slide off the bed, he seemed to reconsider, quickly leaning over and pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade. “You’re beautiful, did you know?”

The reminder of your nakedness made you blush. As if somehow that could be embarrassing after what you both had just done. “You’re rather nice to look at yourself.”

“Just ‘rather nice’? You wound me,” he huffed, now getting to his feet and reaching for his clothes. “The sheer nerve of it. I demand at least ‘preternaturally handsome’.” It was a bit disappointing as his bare skin began to disappear under layers of shirts and trousers.

You shuffled to the edge of the bed and sat up, enjoying the way that his eyes immediately snapped to your breasts and lingered there. “My apologies, Mr. Frye. Adonis himself should be jealous.”

“That’s more like it.”  

The amount of your own clothing on the floor made you abandon the idea of fully redressing. Instead, you took your nightgown and tugged it over your head, the fabric soft and silky against everywhere that still felt beautifully tender. Padding a little closer, you tugged on his coat sleeve, feeling vaguely like a child. “You’ll be safe?”

If only his world wasn’t quite so distant, yours quite so confined.

“I promise,” he said again, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your lips. “I’ll be back for you.”

\---

Shortly after Jacob left, the clock chimed to show the time when you were expected to leave for the ball. Shuffling your robe over your nightgown, you went to find your husband in the foyer of the manor. 

“My dear?” Crawford’s frown exaggerated the lines on his face when he saw you descending the staircase. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

You leaned against the railing heavily, sighing with your whole body. “I’m so sorry, husband, but I feel terribly weak. I don’t think it would be safe to go.”

His scowl intensified. “There are contacts that I had hoped for you to connect me with tonight.”

Taking careful steps down the rest of the way, you wandered up until you were directly in front of him, lowering your lashes demurely. “I know, darling, but I daren’t risk the future of our family.”

“Very well,” he acknowledged heavily, pulling his gloves taut on his hands. He stopped briefly so Wellsby could fuss with the lapels of his jacket and cravat, a few final motions to ensure that everything was perfect.

It suddenly seemed very real that this would- in all likelihood- be the last time you ever saw this strange monster in the guise of a man. There would be no more tense and awful breakfasts, painful evenings, humiliating afternoons spent in the company of others while he clearly disregarded you.

You couldn’t bring yourself to feel an ounce of regret.

Instead, there was merely a feral sort of joy, one that clawed its way up from your chest and sang triumphantly, making you bite the insides of your cheeks to stop from smiling. Perhaps this was the joy of Eve in the garden as she bit into the apple, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. “I will see you the next time you’re home?”

“Indeed.” He was turning to leave, setting his top hat gently on his head.

On impulse, you leaned up towards him and pressed a dry kiss to his cheek, a final mockery of your role as a wife. “Goodbye, husband.” The slickness of Jacob’s come still between your thighs felt like a brand as you pushed on your toes, a testament to Crawford’s final and unknown humiliation.

He merely nodded in response and stepped through the front door.

Moving to stand to the side, you watched as his back receded towards where the carriage was waiting. In the sliver of the dim evening lamplight, you caught one last glimpse of his fashionable coat, and there was a moment of regret that he would never know the extent of your betrayal.

Perhaps he would learn of it in hell.

Gaze steady, you kept your eyes on his receding figure until Wellsby took the handle and closed the door with a heavy and final sound.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pregnancy corsets: It’s a real thing. It was looser than the usual one and had little adjustable slits up the side but it still smoothed out the silhouette. 
> 
> London Season: Easter-August, a Victorian practice of debutantes being presented as officially ready to be married. A bit like an enormous speed-dating process with months of parties, balls, and charity events. 
> 
> Religion: I thought I should note that the reader's religiosity is merely intended to be a reflection of what was standard at the time. 
> 
> Widow’s weeds: a term for the all-black clothing that widows wore. Victorians were big on mourning, especially after Prince Albert’s death and Victoria’s decision to never wear anything other than black ever again. There were different periods of time dedicated to wearing black for different levels of relation (e.g., six months for grandparents and siblings, one year for children mourning parents, and two years for widows). These rules were set out in etiquette guides, the kind that every respectable upper-middle class wife worth her salt would have sitting around the home. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, folks! It’s been a blast! °˖✧◝(^▿^)◜✧˖°


	5. Ruth's Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue, by popular demand! I am weak in the face of peer pressure.

The hotel room was deadly silent.

It wasn’t that you had expected a warm welcome for your news. All the same, it was difficult to see Mama and Papa ashen-faced with surprise, a tableau of shock arranged in front of you.

Mama finally spoke first. “My dear, you cannot be serious.”

You shrugged lightly, shifting in your seat. The crepe fabric of your black dress crunched a little as you moved; it looked oddly out of place in this bright and airy room, so very different from your old home. You hadn't wanted to stay there for a minute longer when the news of Crawford’s death arrived. Thankfully, people interpreted it as a bereaved widow fleeing familiar memories rather than a disgusted accomplice in his murder eager to get away from the lingering remnants of his influence.

That, and Claridge’s served such lovely little cakes with their tea. It made for much nicer lodgings than your old situation.

The shrug goaded Papa into speech. “You are addled from your grief. I won’t allow it.”

“I'm afraid you can't really stop me,” you said quietly, lacing your fingers together. “I have my own means, Papa, I'm no longer dependent.”

It was painful to be doing this. You loved both of your parents. But they had already demonstrated that they didn't always operate with your best interests at heart; wasn’t that how you had ended up married in the first place?

Papa pulled himself together and talked through his shaking indignation, brows drawn tightly. “And what sort of man would be so _brazen_ as to go ahead with this without my approval?”

Ah, if only they knew. “The kind that cares about my happiness first and foremost.”

Mama sputtered. “Why isn’t he here? Is he so ashamed that he couldn't even face us?”

“He wanted to be. I asked him not to.” Jacob had been fairly put out when you insisted that this conversation was best had without him around. “Precisely because I knew you would react like this.”

Wordlessly, Mama folded over on herself, covering her face with her hands. Papa, for his part, gripped Mama’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture and gave you a disbelieving look. “And we are to hand our daughter over to this- this _scoundrel_ who has no regard for the rules of society, who honestly thinks it is appropriate to marry a widow barely three months in mourning?! You, my dear, you are a young woman and your flights of fancy might be forgiven, but a man of any _breeding_ would take control of the situation—”

“He's a knight of the realm,” you said airily, choosing to leave out the way that this was a very recent development. “Who has worked personally for the Queen.” It wasn't worth trying to explain that you wanted to be with Jacob precisely because he respected your opinions on things, rather than trying to 'take control' of you.

This new information threw Papa for a bit of a loop. “But that— even so—”

“I'm confident that he’ll take very good care of me. He makes me very happy, Papa. Don't I deserve that?”

“You deserve a _respectable_ marriage—”

“My last marriage was respectable, and it was not…” You clenched your fingers tightly in your dress. “It was not…”

When you mastered your emotions and raised your gaze, you found that they were both now peering at you intently, faces filled with worry. With a quick glance at Papa, Mama started hesitantly. “Was something wrong before, my dear?”

It was suddenly hard to talk past the lump in your throat. “He was… He was not kind.”

The room descended into silence once more, now thick with dawning horror. Taking a deep breath, Mama closed her eyes tightly, face scrunched as if in pain. “But then why did you not— if you had told us— we would have never...” Her exhaled breath was stuttered, guilt written clearly on her face. “And be that as it may, please, my darling, think of your sisters. They'll never make good matches if you do this, not with the scandal, the shame—”

“They will,” you said confidently, shaking off the lingering gloom brought to mind by Crawford’s vast underworld influence and despicable plans. “With the kind of dowries that you'll be able to give them.”

Your parents stared at you blankly. “Darling…” Papa started slowly. “Our situation is still tenuous, and your settlement barely made us break even. We’re not—”

You folded your hands, trying to appear poised, aware that you were holding the final cards for winning their approval. As much as you were willing to accept being disowned if that was the only option, the thought made your heart hurt. “Jacob and I would like to give you the rest of Crawford’s estate. And I would like to cede my claim to our family’s inheritance— one of the girls can have it, if they marry someone you approve of.”

There was a stunned moment of quiet.

“Jacob is quite independently wealthy,” you continued, making a mental note to never tell them exactly _how_ that wealth had come about. “He can support me and any children we have quite comfortably, and we have no need for the Starrick family fortune or your title, Papa. Jacob has no family to speak of other than a sister— she’s quite well off herself— and no dependents. He knows that you need the money. He’s happy to hand it to you.”

You watched as Papa descended into one of the most intense internal debates that you had ever seen. His quandary was clear. On the one hand: accepting help from the man ostensibly ‘ruining’ his daughter- an upstart stranger that he had never met- and potentially being indebted to this man forever. On the other: the family's financial worries gone forever, security gained for his daughters, and the estate passing to the next generation in one piece.

Mama was looking up at him with wide eyes, clearly willing to follow his lead.

Finally, he let out a long breath. “This will be done _quietly_ ,” he said firmly, pointing a finger in your direction. “The ceremony will have as little pomp as possible, and no crowds. And your young man will pay whomever it takes to keep it out of the gossip columns, do you understand? And we will meet him first.”

“Papa!” You jumped out of your chair and flung your arms around him, laughing happily as he patted your back in a resigned manner. “Thank you, thank you— I promise you’ll like him once you get to know him, I really do.”

When you drew back to beam at him, he was sharing a rueful smile with Mama. “I don’t appear to have a choice in the matter, so I suppose I will.”

\---

Jacob could not have been happier with your parents’ conditions. The idea of a massive cathedral wedding with three hundred guests was apparently ‘terrifying’, and he had every interest in staying out of the papers even without outside pressure. He promptly set about dispensing generous bribes to ensure that this would be carried through.  

Your only added stipulation was that the wedding had to be soon. He was quite happy to accommodate that as well; _especially_ so when you decided to take up celibacy until the ceremony.

“We could skip the banns,” he murmured one night, lips at your ear. “We could get married tomorrow. I know someone who would take some money for it—”

You had merely swatted him away with a grin. “Three more weeks, Jacob Frye. You can wait three more weeks.”

“Fine,” he muttered, slouching into a sulk. “But I won’t be happy about it. It’s going to feel like an eternity.”

Fortunately, Jacob never remembered to stay angry about things for too long. Despite all of his ominous warnings, the three weeks flew by like they were nothing at all. Now, standing at the entrance of the church, you could only look forward to what was ahead.

Perched by your side, Evie made a last few adjustments to your veil. “There,” she said, the smallest quirk of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “You’re certain about this? It’s your last chance to change your mind. You do realize that my brother is a series of accidents waiting to happen.”

You shot her a secretive smile back. “I do believe we’ve discussed this before.” Multiple times, in fact, over nearly endless cups of tea as you had discovered that Jacob’s sister was somehow _exactly_ like him and _nothing_ like him all at once.

It had taken a few days for her to get over the surprise that Jacob had been seeing Crawford Starrick's wife ("you said you had a source, not that you were _cuckolding_ him!"), but thankfully she had quickly proven herself to be of the open-minded sort. “We have, and I think you’re mad. But then, I think you have to be a little bit mad to be a Frye. So I suspect it's for the best.”

“I suppose I’m about to find out.” You fiddled with some of the lace on your front. “And thank you, again, for everything. For all of your help and companionship.” In the end, your parents had declined to attend the wedding and forbidden your sisters from being involved. Should word get out, things were best for the family this way— it hurt, but you understood.

On the upside, you had repeated assurances that they would be regular visitors at the London townhouse that Jacob had purchased. By next year, Mama had even promised to allow some of your sisters to come and visit for an extended stay. It was an imperfect outcome, but it was still far better than your first marriage.

And you weren’t alone, in any case. When you reached out, Evie gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s been my pleasure. I desperately hope you’ll be a stabilizing influence— and it’s rather nice to gain a sister. And besides, I’ll expect you to repay the favour quite soon.” You smiled at her shyly, remembering her small list of requirements for her own upcoming nuptials.

No, you were not alone. And you would never have to be, because Jacob was barely a dozen steps away on the other side of the wall, wearing his one nice suit and no doubt fraying his cuffs with all of his fidgeting.

Holding your chin high and signalling your readiness with a nod, you stepped into the church.

\---

“Come on, up, up.” You had barely a moment’s warning before the ground disappeared, strong arms under your back and knees. You wrapped your arms around Jacob’s neck with a grin, waving happily at the small group of Rooks who had come to see you off. Evie and Henry were somewhere in the back, holding hands and beaming indulgently; they had spent the whole service exchanging not-so-secret smiles at each other. It had been rather adorable.

There was a flurry of wolf-whistling, and a voice yelled out from the crowd. “Boss, are you sure you don’t want us all to keep you company for a bit longer? Hold your hand some?”

Jacob swung around, your head narrowly missing the doorframe as he did so. “So very sorry, gentlemen, but given that this is my _wedding_ , you’re going to be deprived of my company for one night. Try not to cry too much.”

A chorus of groans greeted his words before it trailed off into laughter. When Jacob turned again, you rocked your head forward to ensure that you would fit through the door, and the noise quieted abruptly when the door swung shut behind him.

“There,” he said, with a grin that stretched from ear to ear, shifting his arms as if to let you back on your feet. “Now, my dear—”

“Wait a moment,” you interrupted, “you can hardly put me down yet.”

“Why? We’re over the threshold. Isn't that the tradition? Pick you up, carry you over the threshold, ravish you silly—”

You put on your primmest expression. “I believe you have to carry me to the marital bed.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Our bedroom is on the third floor.”

“Oh, I see, if that’s too _much_ for you…”

The noise he made was a choke of something between indignation and amusement, and before you knew it, you were practically being jogged across the room still in his arms, up one flight of stairs and then the next, his breathing growing more laboured all the while. When you finally reached the bedroom, he practically dumped you on the bedspread as you yelped. “There, happy?”

You laughed up at him. You had seen the room before, but it was lovely to look at it again and know that it was _yours_ , from the big bed and wash stand to the dresser and soft yellow curtains. “Very, thank you.”

“Good,” he said, flopping down beside you. The bed sagged slightly under his weight, pushing you that little bit closer together. “Because I think I’m too tired to do anything else now.”

Rolling up over him, you tugged your gloves off and traced your hands down his front. “Anything? Are you sure?”

“Mmm,” he replied, perfectly still and eyes closed.

Continuing to move down, you slid off the side of the bed until your hands and face were even with his groin, nuzzling your nose to the fabric as a distinct hardness sprang to life. You could vaguely feel the lovely silk dress that you were wearing getting a bit crumpled under your knees, but you couldn't bring yourself to particularly care. 

There was a sound from the bed. “Uh,” Jacob said, now propped up on his elbows and staring down at you with wide eyes. “Hello.”

“Hello,” you parroted back, deftly pulling his trousers open and tugging them down before making quick work of the flannels underneath. Having the freedom to spend money the way you wished meant that you had been able to expand your library, sometimes in quite _eclectic_ directions. Remembering your new education, you feathered a few gentle kisses to the tip of his length, shivering happily when he gasped. Pushing up on your knees, it was quick work to slick your lips and take him in as deeply as you comfortably could, trying to adjust to the strange sensation of him in your mouth. It tasted vaguely salty; not unpleasant, but different. 

“Holy Jesus,” he breathed, and you felt his hand twitch against your hair, disturbing the flowers still twined in your braids. “Holy _Jesus_ —”

You pulled away with a wet sound. “Don’t be profane.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Uh— I, I don't think— that is, sorry, please don't stop—”

You grinned before putting your head back down, wrapping your lips around him once more, humming happily as he groaned. The hum made him twitch wildly, so you tried it again; his groans were turning into incoherent words, a slurred mixture of your name and streams of obscenities as you bobbed back and forth. Your jaw soon started to ache, but you stayed the course, determinedly gripping his calves through his sagging trousers. Going too deep made you gag and hurt a little, so you settled for working at a comfortable pace, trying to swirl your tongue a bit every time you drew away. 

Just when you had discovered that lathing your tongue repeatedly against one ridge made him practically spasm, he gently pushed you away, panting loudly. “I, uh,” he said, looking a bit dazed. “Would like to also do other things, and if you keep that up, I won’t be able to.”

You merely grinned and got to your feet, turning around so he could help to loosen your dress and unlace the corset. Holding your hair out of the way, you grinned over your shoulder at him. “Not so tired now?”

He didn’t even have a retort, instead working quickly along the hooks.

You hummed happily and faced front again as you felt the dress grow slack. “You’re getting faster at this.”

“I wonder why,” he muttered back, before immediately starting on his own shirt as you delicately stepped out of the piles of fabric, stripping off the chemise and drawers. Clambering back onto the bed, you straddled him as he reclined onto the pillows; it was easy to lean down to kiss him gently, slowly deepening it and licking into his mouth. You stayed like this for a time, his hands stroking your back, simply enjoying the contentment of privacy and legitimacy and intimacy. There would be no more need for hiding now, which still felt surreal, but it was everything that you wanted. 

When you drew back, his hands came absently up to play with your breasts, sliding the pad of his thumb against stuff peaks until you were whimpering. “I still can’t believe you let me do this once and then made me wait. I haven’t been able to think about anything else for weeks, I've been bloody useless.”

“Me too,” you confessed, and his eyes flickered up to yours. You gave him your brightest smile. “But now you can have me whenever you’d like.”

His eyes darkened, enough that your breath hitched in your throat. “That’s right.” He raised a hand and hooked a thumb in your mouth, giving a pleased exhale when you closed your lips and flicked your tongue against the rough surface. “All mine.”

The words, uttered possessively, were enough to make your heart sing. With a sigh, you started to rock against him, the slick sound of your arousal embarrassingly loud as you pressed against him. The urgency and _wanting_ in your hips was growing again, enough that you soon reached down and took him in hand, gently and slowly pushing him inside.

With less preparation than last time, there was a moment of discomfort, but it passed in the blink of an eye. Stretched and deliciously full, you stopped for a moment, curling your fingers into his chest and hissing out a long breath. It was nice to feel so solidly in control of the situation, to take the lead for once, to feel like such an active participant. But hadn't that always been what made him so appealing? 

When you opened your eyes, he was looking at you intently, his thumb leaving your mouth to cup your cheek. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” you breathed, leaning backwards and twitching when the new angle let you slide down a bit further. “Please, more.”

He obediently started to move and you rocked with him, eventually tilting your body even further, hands balanced on the covers as you bounced. You developed a sort of coordinated rhythm, one that was easy to fall into given your common goal. It was undignified, the sound of skin meeting indecent, and utterly intoxicating. When you peeked a look at him, his gaze was rapt and mostly focused on the jiggling movement you could feel on your chest; when you tried to raise an arm to cover your breasts, suddenly embarrassed, he merely yanked your arm away with an irritated growl.

Which somehow only made you more aroused.

Soon, his focus moved south and his fingers reached towards where you were joined, working that familiar magic that you had missed so _very_ much. It took some time, but he seemed willing and able to be patient, gently rubbing in circles over and over until you gradually felt a tenseness begin to build flush in your abdomen.

“Ja— cob—” you hitched out, writhing and trying to take him as deeply as you could, the shudder travelling from the base of your spine up through your whole body when the arousal finally crested. It was as lovely as you remembered and you tensed completely, all of your muscles rigid enough that he even could apparently feel it, his breath a hissed sound as you convulsed.

As you slowly came down from it, rocking and chanting his name, he gripped your arms and rolled you both over in a fluid motion; rearing back, he bent your legs up until your ankles were hooked over his shoulders. The fullness was enough to make your hands shoot up and brace against the headboard as he started to thrust, the whole bed jostling a little with his force.

The very same movement that used to be painful was now deliriously pleasing, each snap of his hips another perfect stretch. “Please,” you breathed, “ _please._ ”

His pace was becoming furious, and for a moment you were dizzily taken with the idea that he was _yours_ , that you had both actually succeeded in stealing a little bit of happiness and joy from this often cruel world. Rolling your legs out sideways, you tugged him down flush against your chest, wrapping your fingers in his hair and pressing your mouths together in a desperate kiss. Drawing away a moment, he mumbled against your lips, each movement of his mouth still brushing against yours, "I love you, I love you, I love you—"

You whispered it back, almost pleading in your tone, as if there was still a worry that you could lose him; when you dragged him down for another clumsy kiss and bit down against his lip, his whole body jerked against yours. He groaned deeply as his movements stuttered, becoming uneven and harsh, thrusts so full that they were almost painful until he tensed and stilled for a long moment. For the first time as you felt a familiar rush of warmth, you found yourself truly hoping, truly _praying_ , that seed in your womb would lead to a child.  

The moment broke when his tension drained abruptly and he slumped over you, nearly crushing you with his weight. When you wriggled with an indignant noise, he merely grunted, draping himself even more fully with a satisfied sound over your complaining.

With enough shoving, he eventually heaved himself over with a chuckle, ending up on his back by your side. You curled close to him, hooking a leg over his knee, ignoring the messiness between your thighs in favour of trying to get closer to the delicious smell that seemed to radiate off his very skin.

For a while, you simply lay there quietly, watching the light grow dim outside. The sounds of London could be heard through the window, the coverlet of the bed was soft and warm beneath your skin, and there was nowhere that you would rather be.

Eventually, you propped your head up on your arm, leaning over him. “Perhaps we should run away to France for a while,” you murmured, tracing a finger down his chest. “So we can be sure that any gossip blows over.”

He grunted at you. “You make a fair point. But consider this: we would have to be in _France_.”

“It might be nice. We could eat cheese and drink wine all day.” You nuzzled your way up to his chin, giving the bristles a few kisses.

“Tempting,” he conceded. “But the thing is, I don’t really feel like running away.”

“No?”

“Not in my nature.” Shifting, he leaned up to meet you, brushing his nose to your own. It was a gently intimate gesture, one that you immediately wanted to repeat, preferably at least once a day for the rest of your life. “Besides, I didn’t win a prize so I could hide it.”

You raised your eyebrows at him. “I’m a prize now, am I?”

“Better even than winning a pig at the county fair,” he said, laughing when you made an indignant noise. “I want to show off what you are to all of London.”

“And that would be?”

As he lowered his head to your cheek, you couldn’t see the grin, but you could hear it in the timbre of his voice, the low roll of satisfaction that made a shiver curl up your spine. “My very own _Mrs. Frye_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claridge's: A very nice, very expensive Victorian hotel in London. I think it might still be around? 
> 
> Scandal: From today's vantage, the Reader's parents are kind of being massive assholes. But the Mother, especially, has a point. They can't expect to support their daughters forever (given that they're going to die at some point...!). The best bet for their continued material comfort is a good marriage. And a scandal of this time would, in fact, make "good" families avoid them like the plague. But as the Reader points out, a crapton of money can overcome _any_ concerns. 
> 
> Church banns: Before a marriage, the intention to marry had to be announced on three separate Sundays by the minister in front of the congregation. The idea was sort of to have someone step forward if they knew that the person was already married, or had some other impediment to lawfully joining in matrimony. 
> 
> Your lovely comments made this first trip into reader-insert a lot of fun for me. Thanks, everyone. ( ◞･౪･)


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